


A Brother Scorned

by An0nym1ty



Series: Dispute of Two Turian Brothers [1]
Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 07:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17524337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An0nym1ty/pseuds/An0nym1ty
Summary: There was some disgustingly fruity levo human drink before him. A trap set for his client. And so, he sat in relative silence. If not for the buzz of the bar around him, he’d be alone. Something he would have preferred, honestly. But it couldn’t rightly be helped. He did however thank the Spirits for blessing him with a cold disposition, and Vitiligo. Many tried to avoid him, thinking with his detached nature, that he had done it to himself. Perhaps some paint, or bleaching his plates. Whatever they thought, he was grateful for it. He didn’t necessarily want to deal with anyone that was too social for their own good. Then, he’d have to kill them. That would be such a waste of life.





	1. Unfavorable Circumstances.

He rolled his shoulders, and popped his neck. With the grace of a predator lying in wait, he lifted his glass of Turian Brandy to his mouthplates. A sip sent the burning liquid down his throat. And then he poured a small amount of the drink, into a glass in front of him.

There was some disgustingly fruity levo human drink before him. A trap set for his client. And so, he sat in relative silence. If not for the buzz of the bar around him, he’d be alone. Something he would have preferred, honestly. But it couldn’t rightly be helped. He did however thank the Spirits for blessing him with a cold disposition, and Vitiligo. Many tried to avoid him, thinking with his detached nature, that he had done it to himself. Perhaps some paint, or bleaching his plates. Whatever they thought, he was grateful for it. He didn’t necessarily want to deal with anyone that was too social for their own good. Then, he’d have to kill them. That would be such a waste of life.

Finally, with what felt like hours, his client nervously entered the bar and made his way over to him.

“Mr. Smith,” He greeted, subvocals carefully managed to be silent, and tone tempered with false friendliness.

“Lionfish.” His client sat down at the table, across from him. His fingers shook, and his eyes were wet. He reeked of saltwater, and cheap colonge. Timaeus made note of this all, his nose scrunching. He supposed that Mr. Smith was a cheap man. Cheap, and jumpy. Definitely not a good combination, especially for the job he had just carried out for him. Not only that, he’d been crying. He likely regretted having to have the target killed.

It almost made him want to scoff. Mr. Smith was pathetic.

“I believe our business here is finished.” Not a question. A statement, posed as a question. Mr. Smith nodded jerkily, and placed the credit chit on the table. A quick scan gave Timaeus all of the information he needed. Half of the promised amount.

Instead of openly lashing out, he lifted his drink, for a toast. Relief coated the human’s face, and he scrambled for his own drink to clink it against the assassin’s.

“Yes! Thank god..” As he lifted the drink to his mouthplates once more, Mr. Smith followed in suit, and downed the entirety of the drink. Likely in hopes of being able to leave. And it was evident as he moved to stand, but Timaeus’ talons dug into his wrist and held him in his seat.

“You’re deathly allergic to Dextro, yes, Mr. Smith?” He needed no verbal answer. The human went pale, as if he’d witnessed Death herself in the Turian’s face. “I’m afraid that is only half of what you promised me.” The coward shook his head furiously.

“N-no! I’m sure we agreed upon 12000 credits!”

“It was 24000 credits. Alan.” He near spat. “I have an EpiPen, and if you can wire double that amount to my account for your betrayal, I’ll give it to you.” He released the human, half expecting him to run. But he was pleasantly surprised as he began to gasp, and cry, as he rushed to pull out his personal credit chit. 48000 credits were now sitting in his private bank account.

“Epi-,” Gasped Mr. Smith. He made a show of patting his pockets, and even searching his cowl and down his shirt. All the while, the human was becoming purple in the face as his throat closed up. Not that anyone could tell, in the red and purple lights of Chora’s Den.

“My apologies!” He exclaimed with faux concern, mischief glinting in his eyes. “I’m afraid I must have left it in my other pants.” He tipped his head back to swallow the last of his Brandy, pocketed the credit chit, and then stood. With his head ducked, he slowly, and calmly, left the bar. As the door closed behind him, he heard that resounding thud of the human hitting the table, and then the floor. And when he neared the transport terminal, head down the entire way, he heard the satisfying scream of a discoverer of the body.

All in a day’s work, he mused.


	2. Cooperative Clientele.

This job was going to be easy. He felt the excitement of anticipation thrumming in his veins as he spoke to his newest client.

A Salarian, that thought herself too high ranking to be vulnerable. She was so confident that she felt safe enough to meet him in her office on the Citadel. Timaeus was going to change that.

Of course, after receiving his payment.

“There’s a Turian that I need silenced! He’s been spouting nothing but lies and racism since he’s begun working with me! I even got demoted because of him!” She crowed. And she then paused in thought. “But, I’ve heard rumor that you were reliable?” Her brow raised, and he purred his response.

“Of course. None of my clients have ever complained about my services.” Although, it was mainly because those that did ended up being another casualty in the end. She eyed him warily, large dark eyes lingering on the pale spots that “marred” his appearance.

“On that train of thought, I’ve also heard that you killed most of your complaining clients.”

“My dear, it’s simply because they were upset with the price of my services,” His tone was honeyed, but poison, as he explained as if he were talking to a toddler. “And I couldn’t have them slandering my name or revealing me to the authorities. My work is still illegal.” He reminded, taking her hands into his own. She hummed, seeming to relax at his feigned sweetness.

“That is.. Very true, I suppose..”

“Now, please,” He ran a thumb over the back of her right hand. “If I could have any more information on my target?”

“O-oh, yes!” As if snapping out of a trance, she bobbed her head and pulled her hands from his to activate her omnitool. “His name is Verriol Jukoan. He particularly enjoys hanging around the Lower Markets, and he’s paranoid, always looking over his shoulder. If that information will help?”

“That is extremely helpful, thank you, my dear.” He looked over the holo photo of the target, studying his features and making mental notes of interesting details. Verriol was a rather tall, burly figure, far too much for a normal Turian build. He was likely on performance stims. Likely addicted, if the clasping of his hands and plate shedding was anything to go by. His mouthplates were scarred, circular burn marks. Smoker that let the buds burn to almost nothing. Weak lungs, probably. Dangerous in close quarters, Timaeus presumed, but an easy target should he wish to snipe him.

As for his client’s distaste of Verriol, he concluded that she slept with him. And he didn’t get the pay out he wanted, so now he’s spitting on her name.

“What would be your preferred price?” Good, she seemed willing to pay any price. Not another client he’d have to kill.

“As for my price, seeing as how this will likely take a day or so, and the risk-reward ratios of this assignment, I’d wager 34000 credits.” She nodded, and with the blink of her large eyes, the amount was wired to his account.

“Done.” He bowed his head to her, took her right hand into his own, and pressed his mouthplates to the back of it.

“Thank you. It will be done, and you will have your results shortly. If I may, remember that I was never here.”

“Of course.” And with that, he left her office, a plan formulating on his mind. He opened his omnitool, and made a list of what he’d need.

Performance stims. He needed to know what kind Verriol used.

Speakers. To play with the Turian’s paranoia.

With this planned, he made his way down to the lower wards markets to peruse the shops for the items he needed.

–

Finding the stims was easy enough. He simply had to threaten one seedy pharmacy for the information on Verriol, and then for the stims. Also, another threat to keep them quiet. And on his way out, he purchased the stims. Lastly, was the speakers.

But that was less of a hassle than the stims had been. He only had to buy them off of a cheap electronics stand. They connected with his omnitool easily, and now what he needed to do was set up his trap, and lie in wait.

–

He laid the speakers in different areas around a remote alleyway. Beneath dumpsters, behind sodden old boxes, on top of pallets. Until the area could be flooded simultaneously, or singularly, with the speakers. Good.

–

Verriol was an easily manipulated Turian. Given a couple of stims, a plead for him to follow Timaeus, and more stims, had him going with the assassin without a second thought.

After he allowed Verriol time for the stims to really seep into his system, the speakers were activated.

Recorded voices of crowds, hushed to salacious and suspicious whispers had Verriol spinning on his heel and screaming profanities suitable for only one belonging in an insane asylum. He didn’t like being found out for his addiction. And eventually, his confused paranoia, in the end, only gave Timaeus the upper hand.

And a silenced pistol shot to the forehead dropped the stim addict.

With a subvocal trill of fury at a disappointing hunt, and an exasperated droop of his mandibles, he went about collecting his speakers. He left Verriol were he laid, and stepped over him and the puddle of blue that pooled around his head.

His work was finished, and now to message his client about his work.


	3. Irritable.

The lights of Chora’s Den were pleasantly, irritatingly, mind numbing.

Or at least the alcohol in his system helped numb his thoughts. He didn’t have anything too heavy, just some simple watered down Turian beer. Some random no name brand that was near revolting, but cheap, and burned on the way down. As alcohol should.

He grunted as a heavy hand slapped his back, and the culprit stole the free seat beside him.

“Aren’t you a little young to be drinking?”

“I’m surprised that the Council lets fossils freely roam around the Citadel.” He snarked in return. The Krogan guffawed, and he continued. “I’m twenty, not fifteen.”

“That’s a two minute time span for Krogan. You’re still a kid to me. And you’re under the legal human age of drinking.”

“If you get me kicked out of here, I will shoot you, Wrex.” The aforementioned Krogan grinned widely.

“If you could steady your aim for five minutes, I’ll even let you have a potshot.”

“We met three times within the span of those five years, and you still cannot let go of our first meeting?”

“Never will, kid.”

“I hate you.” Timaeus mused into his drink.

“The feeling is mutual.” A moment of silence spanned between the pair. Nothing was said until a waitress had given Wrex a drink.

“So what brings you out here? If I recall correctly, you have a certain… distaste for the Citadel and its residents.” Wrex made a vague hand gesture, and a noncommittal grunt escaped him.

“You and I both know that as much as I fucking hate it here, we’d be out of the job without the residents of Sunshine-Out-The-Ass ville.”

He gave a slow, understanding nod. He, himself, wasn’t all that fond of the Citadel. But at the very least, you get paid some amount for a job. On Omega, you’re more likely to be scammed out of your hard earned credits. That, and Timaeus did not want to tangle with Aria. No job goes without being reviewed by her first.

“At least we don’t have Aria breathing down out necks here.”

“Truth. I can drink to that.” And so Wrex did, taking a swallow of his Ryncol. He near slammed the glass down on the counter when he had finished his gulp. A bit of the remaining liquid sloshed onto the counter, and Timaeus’ hand. Wrex shook his head to stave off the burn as the Turian very calmly wiped the drink into Wrex’s undersuit. “I felt that, drying your hand on me.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

“You literal shit.” He grumbled. “But I was hired by the Shadow Broker,” his voice dropped into a murmur.

Timaeus almost spilt his drink with how quickly he snapped his head to look at him.

“If it’s me, I swear to you, I will poison y-.”

“Knock it off, Dophero! I have no quarrel with you!” Both males began to relax. Both of their hands reflexively twitched over their sidearms, due to the minutely lingering adrenaline. “I’m after Fist. Fucking, pit knows why. I don’t ask for details, I get a target and I shoot.”

“That’s what differs between us, Wrex. I play with my targets. You break your toys.”

“That was one shotgun! And it was human made!” Timaeus gave him a deadpanned look. “Fine! Two!”

“Lies.” Another look, and Wrex finally cracked.

“Alright, alright! Fourteen! I broke fourteen shotguns! But you don’t know how flimsy human weapons are!”

“Wrex, cut the bullshit. I use the Widow line of Snipers, and previously, the Mantis. I could beat someone to death with the barrel alone and not have a singular dent.”

“I hate you.” Wrex glared. Timaeus only sipped at his drink, and muttered into the bottle.

“Likewise.” They drank in silence for a moment longer, before the Krogan stood. He nodded his goodbye to him, before lumbering off to Fist’s doorman, to threaten him and Fist.

Timaeus just shook his head slowly.


End file.
